


Bugging Out

by blondsak, whumphoarder



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (megg safe), Co-Parenting, Crack Treated Seriously, Food Issues, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, Other: See Story Notes, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Peter Parker is a Mess, Supportive May Parker (Spider-Man), Tony Stark Does What He Wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26165527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/pseuds/blondsak, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: After recovering from a broken jaw and a lengthy stay in the compound’s medbay, Peter is horrified to discover that his dietary preferences have shifted drastically.Or, in which Peter does everything possible not to give in to his sudden new cravings, Tony gets a hankering of his own, and May—as always—is a trooper.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 168
Kudos: 718





	Bugging Out

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Gru, Cleo, and Em for hashing out this idea with us, to Seek for being vehemently opposed (but still looking over that one section for us!), and to Cat & Sally for beta-reading!
> 
> WARNING: While Peter does not have a conventional eating disorder in this story, the fic does focus heavily on the topics of food, nutrition, eating issues, and unintentional food restriction. Please exercise caution if any of these topics are triggering for you.
> 
> (Also, he eats bugs)

It starts with a fly.

Peter is down in the lab, working on fixing his busted right web-shooter as he waits for Tony to get out of some board meeting he’s attending in Pepper’s stead—the latter out of the country on other SI business. 

It was an agreement the two of them had reached barely a week before Peter’s unfortunate run-in with the Green Goblin: any suit repairs occurred only when his mentor was present to oversee and assist with the process, but Peter could go to town on his web-shooters any time he liked. And with Tony running late for their lab time, Peter had no choice but to begin with the broken wrist device first. 

Not that he minded it very much, having seen plenty of the man the last few weeks while he’d recovered in the medbay. It had seemed like every time he'd woken up from a painkiller-induced nap, Tony had arrived directly after carrying a smoothie, hardly saying hello before thrusting the straw right between the wiring around Peter's broken jaw. 

It had majorly sucked, barely even being able to talk while also being stuck in traction as the twenty-seven _other_ broken bones in his body tediously knitted themselves back together along with his jaw. And tedious it had been—Bruce commented on the second day that all the damage done seemed to be forcing Peter’s healing factor to do triage and mend each injury one at a time, causing the process to flow at the rate of molasses.

Hence Tony coming in eight times a day with his disgusting smoothies, only ever letting up when May was around to shoo him away, not needing Peter's voice to hear his distaste for the man’s custom concoctions loud and clear. 

The irony is, for the entire time his jaw was wired, Peter was obsessed with thoughts of all the foods he planned to eat once he recovered. He’d lie in his hospital bed daydreaming about everything from buffalo chicken wings, to stacks of waffles drowning in butter and syrup, to pretty much the entirety of the Taco Bell dollar menu—all while simultaneously coming to the shocking conclusion that it really _is_ possible for him to drink so many milkshakes that he never wants to see another one again. 

But now, over two weeks later, Peter is back in Queens and back to eating solid foods—or he would be, if only his appetite would return. He’s hungry, sure, but it all just tastes a bit _off._ Everything May makes for him seems to turn his stomach even more than usual, and he barely managed two slices of the family-sized supreme pizza he and Ned got to celebrate his wires being removed before it seemed to turn to cardboard in his mouth. The typically mouth-watering aroma of the street food vendors he passes on his way home from school don’t so much as tempt him anymore. Not even a sandwich from Delmar’s sounds appealing. 

And so, here Peter is, down in the lab, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut as he fiddles with the web-shooter Gobby crushed. And if it weren't for the fly, Peter’s pretty sure he'd be able to.

_Buzz….buzz-buzz…_

Peter takes a slow breath, carefully screwing in one of the tiny inner bolts. 

_Buzzzzzz…...buzzzzzz…_

Another slow breath, another bolt. 

_Buzz. Buzz-buzz……….buzzzzzzz–_

With a sigh Peter drops the shooter to the lab bench, standing up and immediately honing in on the fly, which has landed on the wall opposite him, near the ceiling. 

“Sorry little dude,” he says as he stomps over, “but I need to concentrate, which means you gotta go.”

Silently and stalkingly he starts to climb up the wall, pausing only when he gets within about a foot of the fly, who has turned slightly toward him, ready to buzz away at the next movement.

Peter barely takes another breath before it does just that, but not quickly enough to beat Spider-Man. He catches the insect easily in a hollow fist and lands back on the floor with a triumphant grin. 

With the fly’s little feet pressed securely against his curved fingers, Peter heads out of the lab and into the sunlit hallway by the elevators. 

“Hey FRIDAY, could you open a window please?”

“Of course, Peter.”

Immediately one of the automated panes slides up. Peter walks over and puts his fist just outside the glass, about to let the insect go free, when he stops.

The fly is still buzzing around inside his fist, the noise of its flapping wings suddenly capturing all his attention. Peter's pupils dilate as he stares fixedly at his closed hand, slowly bringing it up to his face.

He feels himself licking his lips as he continues to listen to the fly buzz around, the sound of it combined with the feeling of its wings beating against his palm as it desperately searches for an escape causing Peter's heart rate to skyrocket with anticipation.

“Don't worry, little guy,” Peter whispers as he closes his eyes and brings his fist up to his mouth, “It'll be okay. Just stay still.”

He's just about to open his fist toward his mouth when he suddenly feels a hand grip his shoulder, startling him so much that his fist opens just enough for the fly to make its escape, landing on the window pane briefly before flying out into the daylight, soon gone.

Peter twists around to see Tony at his side, staring at him worriedly. 

“Kid, you alright?”

Peter blinks. “Yeah, I'm fine. Why?”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “So you were ignoring me calling your name about a dozen times on purpose then?”

“What?” Peter asks, genuinely baffled. “No, I just—I was letting the fly go and…”

_And what?_

Peter has no idea. Though for a moment there it had been like he'd almost wanted to–

But no, that was insane. Right?

Peter shakes his head. “Sorry, Mr. Stark. Guess I just was, uh, really in my head, or something. The fly’s buzzing was so loud and it was bugging me, y'know?”

Tony continues to stare at him with mild concern for a few seconds before he drops his hand from Peter's shoulder with a shrug. “Alright. But if you do even one more impression of a space cadet I'm calling Bruce down to check you over and make sure that your so-called _mild concussion_ didn't leave any nasty surprises.”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Peter replies with a roll of his eyes, before giving Tony an exaggerated faux grin and adding, “Perfectly normal, see?”

“I don't know if I'd go _that_ far. You're a pretty weird kid even on a good–”

“Hey!”

**X**

The next few days pass in much the same way. Peter keeps trying to eat, spurred on by the hollow growling of his empty stomach, but it’s a struggle. He can’t quite put his finger on what’s wrong—whether it’s the food’s flavor, or texture, or smell—but it’s starting to get a little frustrating.

At least he’s back in school now to take his mind off it. They’d had Doctor Cho draw up some papers stating his lengthy absence was due to a car accident—not exactly a lie; amongst other things, Gobby _had_ slammed him into _several_ vehicles during his assault on the city. 

This afternoon, Peter is slowly chipping his way through the small mountain of make-up work he’s been assigned. Or, that’s what he’s trying to do anyway—he got a bit distracted while searching for suitable background music on YouTube and instead watched five videos straight on the mating cycle of a specific type of cicada that only emerges from hibernation once every seventeen years.

Two quick knocks on Peter’s bedroom door cause him to jump. “Hey, Peter?"

Wiping a bit of drool off the corner of his mouth, he quickly closes the tab and snatches up his physics notebook. “I’m working, May, I swear!”

His aunt laughs lightly. “Oh, I know you are.” Peter relaxes a bit as she pushes the door open to give him an amused look. “I was just coming to ask what you wanted for dinner. I’ve got some chicken defrosted. Chicken fajitas sound good?”

Peter’s nose wrinkles up at the thought. Chicken fajitas do _not_ sound good—not even a little bit. “Uh, maybe something else?”

“Chicken fettuccine?” she suggests.

He shakes his head, swallowing hard at the thought of the jarred alfredo sauce she uses with it. Usually he loves it, but at the moment it sounds positively revolting. 

She thinks for a moment. “Uh… chicken fried rice?”

 _Ugh._ He rubs at the back of his neck awkwardly. “You know, I actually had chicken nuggets for lunch, so...”

 _Nugget_ is more like it; he’d only managed to get one of them down before the meat inexplicably turned to rubber in his mouth—strange, considering nuggets are usually one of the school cafeteria’s more palatable offerings. The tater tot he’d attempted next fared even worse. He’d actually had to spit it out into a napkin before passing the rest of his tray full of salty, processed chicken and potato globs off to a surprised, but not ungrateful, Ned.

May leans her shoulder against the doorframe, arms casually crossed over her chest. “That’s fine—it’ll keep till tomorrow. Wanna do breakfast for dinner? We have bacon and eggs in the fridge, and I think I’ve got some pancake mix left.”

 _Pancakes._ He shudders. Mushy globs of tasteless dough, covered in sickeningly sweet syrup. It’s such a revolting idea that a little grunt of disgust slips out before he can stop it.

May raises an eyebrow at him. “Since when don’t you like pancakes?”

_That’s a good question._

“No, no I do,” Peter covers quickly. “Just… I dunno. Not really in the mood for them today, you know?”

“Alright, well then what _do_ you want?” she asks, sounding a bit exasperated now. “Taco salad?”

Peter grimaces. “Definitely not.”

“Turkey chili?”

“Nah.”

May quirks her lips in thought, only to smile and snap her fingers. “I know—sloppy joe grilled cheese! You love those.”

Peter has to actually press his knuckles to his mouth to keep from physically gagging because nothing has ever sounded worse in his life.

May’s smirk dissolves, instantly replacing with a look of concern. “Are you sick?” She steps over to him and presses her cool palm to his forehead. “You don’t feel warm…”

Peter squirms away, annoyed. “I’m fine,” he protests as she slides her hand down to feel first the side of his face, then the back of his neck. “I’m just not that hungry.” 

Rather than appeasing his aunt, that admission only causes her frown to deepen. “Okay, you’re definitely sick. I’m getting the thermometer,” she announces, turning on her heel.

“No, May, c’mon!” Peter calls after her. “I’m fine! I feel fine.”

She turns back around, giving him a skeptical look. “Injuries like the ones you had can have serious aftereffects, you know? And especially if your healing factor is compromised, then–”

 _“May,”_ Peter interrupts with a groan. “I was cleared by like, four separate doctors and scanned so many times I’m surprised I don’t glow in the dark. If something was wrong, they would have found it.”

“So what is it then?” 

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “Lately, food’s just been kinda…”

_(Flat. Bland. Unsatisfying. Frustrating. Gross. Wrong. Definitely not what he’s been craving.)_

“...not sitting right,” he concludes.

May lets her scrutinizing gaze travel over him for a moment, hunting for some indication of deception. She must not find any because she lets out a resigned sigh. “It’s probably from all the meds you’ve been on,” she decides. “They can upset your stomach.”

Peter just shrugs again. The organ in question chooses that moment to let out a truly obnoxious growl, as if arguing that the only thing it’s upset about is not having received a proper meal in days.

To May, however, it only seems to confirm her suspicions. She nods knowingly. “Alright, I’ll heat you up some soup for dinner.” 

It takes all Peter’s self-control to keep his shudder internal, giving a tight nod instead. “Yeah, that’d be good,” he says. “Thanks.” 

She turns to head for the door. “You should have some yogurt too,” she says as she walks away. “Probiotics—good for your gut!”

 _“May,”_ Peter whines after her.

“Gut health!” she hollers from the hall. “It’s all the rage these days…”

**X**

Being bitten by a radioactive spider had its share of perks. Peter’s poor eyesight improved—literally overnight—along with his chronic asthma and formerly debilitating seasonal allergies. He acquired superhuman strength, agility, heightened senses, and a healing factor to rival Captain America’s. Plus, he’s super sticky. 

(Which is just, like, awesome.)

But of course, for every silver lining, there is a cloud, and in Peter’s case, that cloud comes in the form of a metabolic rate that’s at least twice, if not three or four times, that of an unenhanced individual, requiring upwards of seven thousand calories a day just to maintain homeostasis. 

Or, in other words, the reason he’s currently lying flat on his back in the Avengers training facility, squinting up at his mentor’s mildly concerned expression—(which for Tony means he is actually quite close to panicking).

“’M fine, ’m fine...” Peter mumbles in an admittedly lousy attempt to stave off any further scrutiny, blinking his eyes a few times to clear the fuzzy black spots from his vision. Nothing particularly hurts, and he wonders whether that’s due to the padded gym mat he landed on, or if Tony managed to catch him mid-swoon. He kind of hopes it’s the former. 

“Like hell you are,” Tony bites back. Peter thinks he sounds kind of mad, but it’s hard to be sure over the incessant ringing in his ears.

“I am,” Peter insists with a groan. He starts to sit up, but Tony places a firm hand on his chest. 

“No, just stay down for now,” he commands. “At least until we can figure out which of your most recent three-dozen injuries caused you to reenact a Jane Austin novel after a whopping twenty minutes of training.”

“It’s not an injury,” Peter grumbles, pushing Tony’s hand off him irritably. “It’s just low blood sugar or something. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you’re fine, and I’m Dolly Parton...” Tony mutters under his breath. He lets Peter sit up this time, but keeps a hand hovering nearby—which Peter has to admit is probably smart considering how much his head rushes at the movement. 

Once he seems sure that Peter’s able to hold himself up, Tony fetches a Gatorade from the cooler on the other side of the gym. Given how many things have been tasting “off” lately, Peter’s skeptical about trying it, but he does so anyway with a few cautious sips. To his surprise, the sugary beverage goes down easily. 

Tony waits until Peter’s downed half the bottle and is no longer actively shaking before starting to question him. “So why’s your blood sugar tanking?” he asks. “Did you not grab a snack when you got here? I told FRI to let you know I just restocked the peanut butter and marshmallow fluff for those god-awful sandwiches you like.”

Peter sighs heavily, bringing his knees up to his chest only to prop his elbows on them and press his fists against his eyes. For the first time, the idea occurs to him that his enhancements could be subconsciously trying to sabotage his body… but why? He’s hungry, after all—gnawingly, achingly hungry—so why is the very thought of any kind of real sustenance making his stomach churn like this?

“So that’s a no, then, huh?” Tony asks when he doesn’t answer.

Peter bites his lip hard as he shakes his head, eyes still squeezed shut.

Tony sighs heavily. “Alright.” He plops himself down on the mat beside Peter. “Do we need to have a chat?”

Lowering his hands, Peter frowns up at Tony. “About what?”

Tony looks him right in the eyes. “About this new hunger strike your aunt says you’ve been on.”

“Wait, _May called you?”_ Peter balks.

Tony snorts in amusement. “Of course. Every Tuesday—eight p.m. Gotta find someone to commiserate with over the perils of raising a reckless mutant vigilante with a genius-level IQ but not enough self-preservation skills to eat a goddamn sandwich.”

That comment hits a sore spot. Sure, maybe he goes overboard sometimes but he _does_ know how to take care of himself—recent evidence to the contrary aside. “It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose!” Peter snaps.

Tony’s expression immediately sobers. “You know she’s just worried about you, kid,” he says. “And frankly, so am I. I was already planning to have Bruce give you a check up this weekend to make sure everything healed right, but then you went and faceplanted on my gym mat, so…” 

Peter feels himself deflating. He knows it’s not their fault and he shouldn’t be upset at them for worrying, but neither May nor Tony seem to grasp just how wildly frustrating this is for him. “I _want_ to eat,” Peter clarifies, “and I _try_ to eat. But ever since I got out of medbay, it’s like all food is just… suddenly _gross.”_

Tony smirks. “Well, I get that not everything lives up to my kale-and-goji-berry smoothies, but surely _some_ food must sound good enou–”

“No, _it doesn’t,”_ Peter interrupts sharply. “Everything I eat just tastes wrong. Or… or it _feels_ wrong. Nothing is satisfying anymore—it’s like I’m trying to eat styrofoam or something.”

Tony’s brow furrows. “You're losing your sense of taste?”

Peter shrugs. That’s not exactly it, but it’s about as close as he can get to explaining the absurd feeling that the entire concept of _food_ —as a whole—has him mentally flinching away, as if facing some sort of threat.

Tony looks at him for a long moment. Then he sighs and glances up at the ceiling. “FRI, have Banner meet us in the medbay.”

_“Right away, boss.”_

**X**

Less than two hours later, Peter’s been thoroughly poked, prodded, examined, blood-tested, and scanned—but the results are far from illuminating. According to Dr. Banner, there’s no evidence of long-term damage from his injuries. In fact, nearly all the results are more or less within what they know to be his normal parameters. The only anomaly of note comes when his blood work reveals he’s a little anemic, but it’s not even as bad as they expected, given all the blood loss he incurred a few weeks ago. All signs seem to indicate he’s recovered just fine.

Though of course, that doesn’t explain Peter’s newly acquired food aversion. 

Bruce goes on to run through a whole list of questions, which Peter answers to the best of his ability, but the longer the exam drags on, the harder it is for him to focus. The doctor’s inquiries range from questions about Peter’s usual diet, to his recent sleeping habits, to any notable changes in his bowel movements—the last one being a topic that would embarrass him greatly if only he weren’t so increasingly distracted. It’s partly due to the insatiable growling monster in his stomach, and partly because there’s another goddamn fly in the room.

_Buzz….buzz-buzz…_

“–another potential cause of loss of taste,” Dr. Banner drones on to him and Tony as Peter watches the insect circle around the lab, “is chronic sinusitis, but he’s reporting none of the other classic symptoms such as nasal congestion, loss of smell, sinus pain–”

_Buzzzzzz…...buzzzzzz…_

Peter’s eyes glaze over a bit as the fly diverts course toward the ceiling.

“–it could be allergy related, but again, there’s no indication of the other classic markers–”

_Buzz….buzz-buzz…buzz...._

The insect pings against the overhead light a few times before floating back down again. It makes a lazy loop, then zips back in his direction—Peter suddenly finding himself hoping beyond hope that it will come within easy reach.

“–and the strange part is that his iron levels are actually–”

As if it can hear his thoughts, the fly lands on Peter’s left knee. Slowly, he moves his right arm so that it’s resting on his thigh, fingers tensing in eager anticipation. As if sensing danger, the fly takes off again and Peter lets out a sharp gasp that has Bruce trailing off, both him and Tony glancing over.

“You alright there, bud?” Tony asks, but Peter barely notices he even spoke, completely entranced by the fly which is now hovering just inches from his face.

 _Buzz. Buzz-buzz……….buzzzzzzz–_

Tony raises an eyebrow, chuckling. “It’s just a fly, kid, it’s not gonna–”

Before Peter can even register what he’s doing, his hand shoots up, closes around the fly, and pops it into his mouth.

This is followed by a beat of complete and utter silence during which fireworks burst behind Peter’s eyes—his brain lighting up like the Rockefeller Christmas tree as everything comes together. So _this_ is what he’s been missing—what his entire _being_ has been yearning for the last few weeks. Not sandwiches from Delmar’s or fluffernutters or sloppy joes, but bugs. Tasty, tasty _bugs._

Yet just as quickly as the euphoria came it now passes, Peter’s elation immediately turning to shock as he takes in the wide-eyed stares of the two adults.

“...bite you,” Tony belatedly finishes in a deadpan while Bruce just continues to gawk. “What the ever-living _fuck,_ Pete?”

Panic surges through Peter as he realizes what he’s actually done—the exceptionally disgusting act he’s just committed. He’s not only eaten a fly, he thoroughly _enjoyed_ it. What the hell is wrong with him?

“Nothing happened, I swear!” he blurts, his voice shooting up at least an octave. He wants nothing more in this moment than to run out of the room. “It must have flown away, that’s all. Yeah, it just, it just flew off!”

“Peter,” Bruce says gently, “we both just saw you...”

“No! You don’t understand, I–”

“Hey FRI?” Tony addresses the AI, his eyes still locked on Peter. “You get that?”

_“Affirmative, boss.”_

Peter gulps. “Okay, okay fine, I might have _possibly,_ _accidentally, sort of_ eaten a fly, but– but I didn’t mean to! It just came so close to me and I couldn’t think and I was so _hungry_ an– and…”—a wave of intense longing crashes over him and he lets out a little moan—“and it tasted _so good!”_

“Peter,” Tony says dumbly, jaw slack.

“Like–like it was crunchy, and juicy, and savory, and delicious!” Peter rambles on, licking his lips. “It was like... the first time I ever tried a Crunchwrap Supreme! But like, a million times _better.”_ Then, realizing what he just said, he covers his face with his hands. “Oh my god.”

Bruce clears his throat. “Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “That’s, uh… that’s certainly interesting.”

“Interesting is one word for it,” Tony says with a chuckle, calmer now that he’s past his initial shock. “So fess up, kid—did you get bitten by a radioactive frog too?”

“Please don’t joke about this, Mr. Stark,” Peter says with a groan. “This is—the worst thing ever. Like, the absolute worst. As in, nothing worse has or ever will happen to me. So please, just—don’t make jokes.”

“Sorry, Pete, no can do,” Tony replies airily. Then to Bruce, “So what do you think, Doc?”

“We’d have to run some more tests to confirm,” Bruce replies, “but barring any radioactive frogs”—Peter shoots Tony a glare—“my best guess is that this is something that was dormant from the spider bite.”

“So then why now?” Tony asks. “He got his powers nearly two years ago.”

“Good question.” Bruce hums thoughtfully. “Peter, did you have these… _urges_ before your run-in with the Goblin?”

“No, of course not!” he denies. “Everything was normal.”

“And you haven’t had any interest in other foods at all since your injury? Say, foods full of carbs, or fat?”

Peter shakes his head. “It’s all just kinda gross.”

“How about meat?”

He shakes his head again, a sinking feeling starting to come over him. “In the beginning it was alright, but now…” he trails off, lowering his gaze. 

“Well, if there’s one thing bugs are excellent for as a food source, it’s protein,” Bruce says. “And with you having been on a liquid diet for a week, there’s no doubt you were getting less of that than usual.”

“Yeah, probably,” Peter admits, picking at a piece of fuzz on his pant leg. “And even after I could chew again, I was still kinda nauseous from the painkillers, and I guess I just—wasn’t really up for eating much. I definitely felt run down because of it, but I was healing fine, so…” He trails off, shrugging again.

Bruce nods slowly, and Peter can practically see the gears in his brain turning. “So... all available calories were going toward healing, but your regular metabolic needs were still there. That could have led to cravings for whatever will provide the most energy in the smallest package, which—due to this particular arachnid trait—turned out to be insects.”

Peter groans, dropping his head into his hands. He doesn’t look up even as Tony walks over and pats him on the back.

“There, there, Pete. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Not for _you,_ maybe. You don’t have to go to school and wonder if you’re going to end up chasing a random mosquito down the hall in between periods!” Peter bursts out. “It’s one thing to be a Lego or Star Wars nerd, but the weird kid who eats _bugs?_ Flash will never let me live it down.”

“You know, in many parts of the world it’s actually very common to eat insects,” Bruce says mildly. “When I lived in India, I visited the Bodo people in Assam. They eat all sorts of insects as part of their diet.”

It’s only Peter’s great respect for the doctor that keeps him from rolling his eyes. “Yeah, but this is New York, not rural India,” he points out. “Maybe I can just—try not to think about it? Like, just eat regular things, but with more protein, then maybe it’ll go away on its own. That’s possible, right?” 

Bruce quirks an eyebrow. “Possible? Sure, anything is possible. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”

“No, no it will,” Peter says definitively. “It _has_ to.”

**X**

Turns out it _doesn’t_ have to—at least not quickly. Peter’s getting more and more desperate as the days and then weeks after the fainting incident carry on with no change.

It isn’t for lack of effort. Since that one (amazing, stupendous, _incredible)_ fly, Peter’s managed to keep himself under control and not eat any more random bugs. He’s been so determined to ignore his desire to consume insects, in fact, that he even managed to throw out a mysterious—and frankly rather suspicious, considering the timing—half-eaten bag of grasshopper flour chips from his and May’s snack cupboard, despite being sorely tempted to inhale them the moment the plastic packaging crinkled in his grip.

As if things weren't hard enough, his predicament isn’t made any easier by almost every other consumable product tasting like cardboard, or worse—just plain revolting. Through trial and error, Peter discovers that liquids and foods high in sugar are more or less neutral territory for his taste buds—not _appealing,_ exactly, but certainly manageable. But everything else makes him want to hurl—particularly foods high in protein, to his complete frustration.

He’s very aware that neither Bruce nor Tony—not to mention May, whom Tony had made Peter call and confess the situation to before he could so much as step one toe out of the lab—are pleased with his continued refusal to eat what his body is clearly craving. But thankfully they’ve been intuitive enough to recognize that Peter needed to at least _try_ to fix this on his own terms first.

Yet now, weeks later and with the cravings only seeming to get worse the longer he denies himself, even Peter is starting to wonder if he should just give up. Especially since he’s grounded from patrol and training until his energy levels and anemia both stabilize—which they haven’t—and Peter _hates_ not being able to go out as Spider-Man.

But between the endless cycle of hunger, exhaustion, and frustration, there’s still something in him that absolutely refuses to give in yet. People already think he’s strange for still collecting Lego sets, not to mention all the weird disappearing acts he pulls. But eating bugs? Even _if_ he somehow managed to hide that from his classmates like he hides Spider-Man, it would still feel like a bridge too far. 

So Peter forges on, determined to plow through until his body sees reason and goes back to being normal—well, normal for him anyway.

And he actually manages it… at least until the day he faceplants on the outdoor track—nearly taking down Ned and Suzan Yang with him—during gym warm-ups.

**X**

“You really didn’t have to come get me, Mr. Stark,” Peter says from the passenger seat as he holds the ice-pack the nurse gave him to the left side of his forehead. “I could have just taken the subway home.”

“Number one, no school is going to let you just walk out the door on your own after passing out and cracking your head, Pete,” Tony says as he maneuvers the car out of the Midtown pick-up zone and into traffic, “and number two, I already told you—I’ve got some business of my own downtown to attend to. Which, by the way, you’re coming along for.”

Peter’s lone unfrozen eyebrow furrows. “Where are we going?”

Tony shoots him a gleeful look. “To the best hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint in the city—Macho Tacos. They make the greatest _antojitos_ north of Texas.”

“Not to be a downer, but I’m not really very hungry,” Peter replies with a grimace, already dreading the smells and sights of so many meat-based dishes. “And uh, my head also kinda still hurts. I should just go home and sleep, don’t you think?”

“You’ll just have to power through it, underoos,” Tony replies without remorse, “‘cause Queens is in the opposite direction and I’m _famished.”_

Peter sits back in his seat with a huff, not speaking again until after they’ve parked and made their way to the entrance of the restaurant. Tony wasn’t lying—the place really _is_ tiny, but nevertheless Peter is immediately assaulted by the overwhelmingly gross scents of grilled pork, steak, and chicken as soon as Tony opens the door ahead of him.

“Seriously, Mr. Stark, I really don’t feel good,” he hisses across the table as soon as they’ve been seated and handed menus. “Can I just wait in the car?”

“Oh come now,” Tony says mildly as he eyes his menu, before looking back up at Peter. “Can’t you find it in your heart to keep your lonely mentor company?”

Peter crosses his arms in annoyance. “You live with nine other people. You complain literally _all_ the time about how you never get any peace and quiet.”

“Maybe I just miss _you_ then, how about that?” Tony replies, but the clear smirk on his face gives him away. At Peter’s continued glare, he adds, “You don’t have to get anything, alright? The heart wants what it wants, and all that jazz. Feel free to just sit there and be a brooding teenager while I down some delicious tacos.”

“Good afternoon, and welcome to Macho Tacos,” a server interrupts, having snuck up to the table while Peter and Tony were bickering. “I’m Rosa. Have you decided on your order?”

“We have!” Tony replies jovially. “Nothing but water for sourpuss over there”—Peter’s glare intensifies—”but I’ll take four of the _chapulines_ _,_ if you please.”

“Very good,” Rosa says, marking down the order before adding with a kind smile, “I wouldn’t expect someone like you to order _tacos de chapulines,_ much less four.”

“What can I say? This place makes the best in town,” Tony replies—a bit _too_ enthusiastically, Peter thinks. 

“What are _chapulines_?” he asks after Rosa walks away.

Tony just shrugs in response before leaning over the table and whispering conspiratorially, “You’ll find out soon enough. And then you’ll wish you’d ordered some too.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but before he can pull out his cell phone to look them up, Tony starts in on a detailed explanation about his newest tech project—an electromagnetic pulse arrow for Clint—and before he knows it, Rosa is back with the tacos _._

“Here you go. Enjoy!” she says with a smile before leaving them to it, Peter staring open-mouthed at the plate in front of Tony.

“Those are… are those–”

“ _Chapulines,_ ” Tony says with a smirk, “also known as fried crickets. A staple in parts of Mexico, which luckily made it all the way up here.”

Peter watches with a slack jaw and glazed eyes as Tony picks up one of the four tacos and takes a large bite.

“Mmm,” Tony vocalizes, with no small amount of exaggerated euphoria, before swallowing. “God, these are good. Better than I remembered, in fact. The little legs tend to get stuck in your teeth but otherwise, it’s the perfect food—crunchy, spicy and delicious.”

“Crunchy,” Peter repeats dumbly. “Spicy.”

“And delicious,” Tony finishes with raised eyebrows, taking another bite. Peter stares, barely able to keep himself from openly drooling as he watches Tony continue to polish off the tacos in a row, until there’s just one left. God, he’s just so _hungry_ , and they smell so _good._

But no, he tells himself, balling his hands into fists under the table as beads of sweat form at his temples. He can’t give in. Because he’s not dumb. He knows what Tony is doing—hell, what he probably planned on finding a way to do even before Peter gave him the perfect opportunity by passing out while May was on-shift. 

Peter is _not_ going to give in. He’s not. Really. He just needs to make it through Tony eating this one final taco and then–

“Y’know, I’m pretty full,” Tony says as he stops his rampage to take a drink from his water glass. “You sure you don’t want the last one, kid?”

Peter forces himself to shake his head—afraid that if he opens his mouth, he’ll say the opposite of what he means to.

Tony just stares for a few long moments before sighing. “Alright,” he says half-regretfully, moving to pick up the taco. “If that’s what you really want, then–”

Before Peter can stop himself he darts out an arm, plucking the taco right out of Tony’s loose grip and chomping off half of it in one go.

The next ten seconds pass Peter by like something out of a romance, when the protagonist first sees their true love. All his senses narrow down to simply taste and texture, the brittle shell-like bodies of the crickets rolling around on his tongue while each small bud seems to come alive with every crunch of his teeth. 

Eyes closed, he inhales the rest of the _chapulín_ almost before he’s finished swallowing, the utter elation he feels with the second bite no less than he’d experienced with the first.

He’s never eaten anything better than this taco. He could eat a hundred more of them. No, a thousand. Hell, he could eat–

A triumphant chuckle from Tony has his eyes snapping open, Peter coming back to himself just in time to blush a deep red as he takes a long sip of his water. 

“So, how was it?” Tony asks, leaning back in his booth seat with a smug expression. “Tasty, aren't they?”

“That was really uncalled for, Mr. Stark,” Peter says in lieu of answering, wiping his mouth with his napkin and narrowing his eyes accusingly at his mentor. “You could have at least warned a guy.”

“If I’d warned you, you wouldn’t have ever come through that front door,” Tony points out. 

Peter bites back the retort on the tip of his tongue. His mentor might be right, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Tony leans forward to push the empty _chapulines_ plate toward the edge of the table. “Look, Pete. I get that this is a weird situation for you—I really do. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by trying to avoid the one food your body is clearly telling you that you need right now.”

“But it’s not that simple!” Peter protests. “I can’t just show up to school with a lunchbox full of cricket tacos!”

“And I’m not saying you have to,” Tony says calmly. “This little intervention here was just to get the ball rolling, but it doesn’t have to be like this all the time. There are _far_ less conspicuous ways for you to get the nutrition you need than eating whole crickets.”

Peter scoffs. “So next time I eat spaghetti, we just swap it out for a plate of earthworms?”

“First of all, worms aren’t insects, so–” 

“–Or I just toss some beetles into my ramen noodles for a little crunch?” Peter continues to rant. “Sprinkle fly wings on my yogurt instead of granola? Have a nice big bowl of fried Ant Krispies for breakfast?”

Tony gives an innocent shrug. “I mean, as long as it can still snap, crackle, and pop...”

 _“Mr. Starrk,”_ Peter whines. He’s just so frustrated, and tired, and honestly, _hangry._

Tony’s expression sobers. “Alright, let’s look at the facts, Pete. Before your little run-in with Gobby, you were sparring two hours with Black Widow without breaking a sweat. Today you fainted in a _highschool gym class_. Not to mention the fact that you haven’t patrolled in _weeks_ now.”

Peter bristles defensively. “Which is only because _you and May_ said–” 

Tony holds up a placating hand. “I know,” he interrupts. “I know—our rule. Gotta keep you safe. But I also know how much you hate it, which is why I would think you’d be pretty invested in finding a solution that’s going to get you back on your feet again, right?”

Peter swallows, feeling some of the heat inside him starting to fade. He knows May and Tony just want what’s best for him. He nods his head.

“Good.” Reaching into his jacket, Tony retrieves a tablet and flips the screen on. “Because Bruce and I have got some _actual_ ideas for introducing more insects into your diet that don’t include contacting the producers of Fear Factor for recipe suggestions.”

Tony clicks on an app, then rotates the device around to reveal a chart with the nutrition facts for various kinds of insects—beetles, moths, crickets, ants, wasps… all the way down to stink bugs—organized into neat rows showing protein content, fat, carbs, vitamins, and so on. Clicking on another tab, he quickly scrolls through some downloaded articles on insect dehydration and cooking methods, then some more on ways they can be powdered or ground into pastes.

“This is really nice and all, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, pulling his eyes away from a recipe for cricket kugel. “But people are still going to notice I’m eating bugs.”

“Miles ahead of you, Pete,” Tony replies, sounding far too calm and self-assured. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but May and Banner and I have been... preparing a bit.”

Peter frowns. “Wait, so the grasshopper chips in the pantry were a trap?”

“Huh?” Tony returns the frown, looking genuinely confused. “What chips?”

“Ugh, never mind,” Peter mutters with a dismissive hand wave. Guess those really did just belong to May. Then again, his aunt genuinely enjoys liverwurst and raw onion sandwiches and brings some kind of horrific 70s-era gelatin mold to pretty much every potluck she’s invited to, so he probably should have guessed bugs would be just the next step on her own eccentric culinary journey.

“Anyway,” Tony goes on, “May’s got a long list of every city grocery store, bodega—even all the _farmer’s markets_ that sell everything a newfound insectivore”—Peter flinches at the label—“could need. And I may or may not have already purchased a state-of-the-art blender and food grinder you can take home from the compound whenever you want. Hell, Bruce and I even managed to find a specialty reptile food store in Brooklyn that will discreetly deliver frozen insects right to your door, like your own personal arachnid grocery delivery service.”

His expression softens when Peter doesn’t even laugh—opting to chew his lip instead. “Look, I know you’re worried—I get it. You’ve just been condemned to a life of munching creepy crawlies. You have my condolences, kid. But this _is_ manageable. Nobody needs to know a thing unless you want them to.”

Peter doesn’t say anything at first, just goes back to skimming through the app as he mulls over his mentor’s words. For as much as he wants to keep up his protest, a larger part of him recognizes Tony is right—it’s just not worth fighting this anymore. It’s taking way too much energy and worse, it’s keeping him from being Spider-Man.

If including insects as a regular part of his diet will get him strong enough to go back to patrolling and training, Peter finally accepts, then it’ll be worth it. Plus, he can’t lie—whether he likes it or not, bugs really _do_ taste amazing to him now.

“Okay,” he sighs deeply, closing the app and handing back the tablet. “Okay, I’ll give it a try, I guess.”

Tony smiles, relieved. “That’s all I’m asking, kid. Now how about we get you back to Queens so you can tell your aunt the good news?”

“Yeah, alright. But first–” Peter’s gaze falls to the few remaining crumbs on the empty _chapulines_ plate, his stomach letting out a loud growl. He looks back up at Tony hopefully. “Do you think we could order some of those tacos to go?”

**Author's Note:**

> (Do you think you would have handled this situation better or worse than Peter? Feel free to let us know in the comments :D)
> 
> Come and hang out on tumblr if you'd like! [blondsak](https://blondsak.tumblr.com/) & [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/)


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